


317b31

by LakeHermione



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 08:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17422226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LakeHermione/pseuds/LakeHermione
Summary: So, over the holidays I found myself wondering what Christmas was like for young Rachel at the Dyad.  This story imagines her "home" from school at age thirteen doing what any thirteen-year-old raised in a toxic, amoral, corporate environment would do over the holidays--reading clone files and clinically judging them. Ho Ho Ho!





	317b31

**Author's Note:**

> Rachel naturally prefers to think of them by their clone tags. So—I "think" I have these clone tags, right.  But by all means let me know if I've got it wrong!  
>    
> 324b21 is (of course) Cosima Neihaus  
> 903v18 is Alison Hendrix  
> 843v90 is Krystal Goderitch  
> 528m32 is Miriam Johnson  
> 322d01-(a) is Helena  
> 322d01-(b) is Sarah Manning; and  
> 317b31 is Elizabeth Childs
> 
> Also, anytime you see an * it means Rachel is wrong about something.

The files were kept in a locked room in the sub-basement of the old wing on a heavily restricted floor. Few at Dyad had access to the floor. Even fewer had access to the file room.  In fact, as far as thirteen-year-old Rachel Duncan knew, aside from her, the only people with access to the file room were Aldous, his elderly assistant Mrs. Clark and Dr. Nealon.*  Others were, of course, permitted to check out specific files from time to time, but they had to first request them from Mrs. Clark, and then have Aldous approve their request. Further, they were only allowed to see the files for the clones they were actively studying or monitoring.  Rachel, Aldous and Dr. Nealon, on the other hand, were the only ones permitted to see them all.*  This alone, made the file room one of her favorite places when she was “home”from school.   It wasn’t the only reason though.  She liked the old-fashioned wooden library table, the smell of the green leather chair, the constant hum from the boiler room next door and of course, that she and she alone of her genetic identicals was privy to the story of their collective lives. 

The file room was just a few doors down from the two-room suite that Rachel had moved into when she turned twelve and was deemed old enough to live quasi-independently at the Dyad.  She wasn’t there all that often these days.  Between being away at school and her time at the summer camp in Maine, it was really just a few weeks here or there and over winter break.  When she was “home” Aldous still insisted on hiring an au pair to accompany her on outings and keep an eye on her though it was almost unnecessary.  She preferred the peace and quiet of being alone in her suite.  Communal living, she had found, was simply exhausting, and although there were aspects of living at the Dyad that were suboptimal, she had grown to appreciate (or at minimum tolerate) her situation for the most part.

She had arrived that afternoon and had joined Aldous for a late supper in his office as was their custom on her first day back.  It had been a pleasant evening.  He had food brought in from her favorite Japanese restaurant.  He told her about some of his research. She’d shown him her report card and he’d seemed pleased. He complimented her on her hair—she’d lightened it to a dark blond color. They talked about her project for the upcoming science fair. He didn’t ask her much of any else.  He didn’t need to. Her monitor (the housemother of her dormitory) had presumably already reported back all of the pertinent details of her life. 

Now back in her suite alone, she was pleased to see they’d installed a live Christmas tree in a stand in the corner and that the boxes containing her parents’ ornaments had been brought up from her storage unit as well.  She smiled to herself as she breathed in the pleasant scent of the blue spruce and put on her CD of Handel’s Messiah.  Mother and Father always listened to the Messiah while they were decorating the tree. The first box had the lights—white, of course. The next box contained a tasteful set of matching silver and gold orbs and icicles in various sizes.   The last box was Father’s—a garish mix of colorful hand-me-down and homemade ornaments from his childhood. Mother had hated them and had banished them to the cellar.   Rachel had to agree (most of them were terrible), but she used them anyway.

After she was done and had admired her tree from every angle, she’d punched in the code on the wall safe and retrieved her pass-card for the file room and her composition book.  She then proceeded down the quiet hallway sucking on the mini candy cane the nighttime security guard had given her with a sad smile.  When she arrived in front of the door to the file room, she snicked her pass-card through the card reader and then got up on her tip-toes to peer into the sensor for the retinal scan. A self-satisfied grin spread across her face as the door locks disengaged.    
Now, she didn’t just sit down and pluck files at random. Oh no. She had a process she’d developed over the years.  She only came late at night, after everyone had gone home and she always, ALWAYS, looked through the files in the same order.  They were arranged geographically by continent and then within each subgroup in alpha-numeric order by identification tag.  In addition, there were separate sections for those who had died (currently seven due to various childhood diseases and accidents) and for the “missing.”Rachel, always began her review in the “missing” section, before moving on to the deceased, then by continent in alpha-numeric order EXCEPT she skipped over the files for the four North American clones who lived the closest to her and did them last. There were two in the greater Toronto area, one in Kingston and one (usually) in Buffalo, New York.  She saved them for last because she liked to take her time with these files. They were the faces, after all, that she involuntarily scanned for when she was out and about.  To her knowledge, she’d never randomly encountered any of them. However, last year she’d gone to see 903v18 and 317b31 in person (not that they or anyone else knew that).*  

Each file was organized in the same fashion. On the left side of the file was a recent photograph. At first it had been almost impossible to tell them apart. As they got older, however, cultural, socio-economic and chosen individual differences began to emerge.  On the right side of the file were monitor reports, tests and assessments in reverse chronological order--the top page always being the most recent composite score and annual assessment. The clones were sorted into grade classifications (1 through 5) based on their overall emotional, social and physical well-being, with 5 being the highest functioning and so forth. The assessment was updated annually and incorporated the DSM-IV diagnostic categories (Clinical disorders, Personality disorders, Medical conditions, Psychosocial and Environmental conditions and a general global assessment of functioning.) The median score was usually around 2.75. Her composition book indicated the last time she’d looked, the clone with the highest composite score (present company excluded, Rachel might add) was 324b21 with a composite score of 4.78.* 

After she entered the room, Rachel retrieved the “missing”files and then sat down in the green chair.  In all the years she had been permitted to enter the room, the “missing” section contained exactly two files--322d01-(a) and 322d01-(b)—a set of monozygotic twins who had seemingly vanished into thin air.  For years, there had been nothing in those two files except the medical records from the obstetrician who was monitoring the surrogate’s pregnancy which cut off at the beginning of the third trimester when the surrogate, Amelia Brown, had disappeared.  And then, last year, upon entering the room Rachel had been thrilled to see that one of the “missing”files had grown exponentially.  It turned out researchers at the Frankfurt office who monitored the threat posed by the Proleathian cult in Europe had intercepted a communication suggesting that a Proleathian named Tomas Volker had located and then abducted one of the missing clones at a Ukrainian orphanage.  Aldous had immediately traveled to the orphanage, retrieved hair samples from child’s bed and confirmed it.  322d01(a) finally had a name—Helena Shevchenko.

She quickly confirmed that 322d01-(b)’s file remained unchanged and put it back on the shelf. 322d01-(a)’s file, however, had grown even thicker. They had now acquired a file from the orphanage which documented her childhood and it had finally been translated from Ukrainian to English. Excellent. Rachel’s pulse raced as she began to read the summary.  322d01-(a), it seemed, had a well-documented history of anti-social behaviors and had exhibited a breath-taking pattern of violence at the orphanage prior to her abduction.  She’d been tentatively assigned a composite score of 1.58 pending further study--probably the lowest score Rachel had ever seen. Fascinating. Current whereabouts unknown.

Next, Rachel moved on to the files of the deceased and confirmed that no one new had joined their ranks.  Good.  Over the next several nights, Rachel paged her way through hundreds of files until she’d finally completed South America, which left only the four she’d skipped over.  

903v18 was the first one she’d ever seen in person.  It had become obvious over the years that Aldous had his favorites or perhaps it was more accurate to say there were certain ones he was rooting for, and 903v18 was clearly one of them. For the life of her, however, Rachel couldn’t understand why anyone would find 903v18 to be even remotely interesting, much less exceptional.  Strange as it was to say about a girl she’d only seen once from a distance walking down the street, but everything, EVERYTHING about this file irritated her.  Those bangs. That pink sweater from the Gap. The same intense arrogant gaze in picture after picture.  All of it grated.  To be fair, yes, she lacked any documented defect of the body or mind. And yes, objectively she was a good student who consistently received top marks, even though her standardized testing suggested a more mediocre intellect.  And yes, it appeared she was hard-working and “socially adept” whatever that meant.  However, Rachel couldn’t shake the feeling that this girl succeeded not because she was exceptional, but rather because she was a big fish from a boring middle class family, swimming in perfect little circles in a small suburban pond. Probably, also because her mother was on the town council and the school board.  

As she read through the most recent update in the file, Rachel knew she should probably feel sorry for 903v18 as it appeared her parents were in the process of getting a divorce and she’d also recently lost her beloved cat Buttons, but oh look, her composite score had still gone up this year from 4.60 to 4.63. Ridiculous. After cringing over a glowing note Aldous had written in her annual assessment about her resiliency in the face of family upheaval and a recent triumph at a regional debate team intersectional, Rachel rolled her eyes to the heavens, shut the folder quickly and moved on.

528m32 was a train wreck as per usual.  Rachel noted a dreadful blue streak had appeared in her unkempt hair. Reading on, it appeared her alcoholic single mother was back in jail for fourth offense DUI and leaving the scene of an accident. And, let’s see—528m32 was back in Buffalo living with an aunt and failing almost all of her courses.  Oh look, her most recent bloodwork tested positive for marijuana. Nurture was beginning to assert itself.  Pity.  Somehow, however, she was scored a 2.31. Hmm...well, she supposed Aldous always was inclined to put outsized stock in artistic ability. 528m32 had recently had a poem selected for publication in a local periodical and played the guitar exhibiting rather impressive skills for one self-taught.  Good for her, she supposed. At least she had something to distract her from her miserable life.  What did Aldous think would become of this girl anyway?   Like so many, Dyad had doomed her from the start.  They couldn’t just implant the embryos in the sorts of wealthy upper-middle class mothers who went to fertility clinics.  Oh no, that would have skewed the results which would have been unforgivable.  Instead, they had to “balance” the experiment and some women who never should have become parents like bottom-feeding, drug-addled, Lyla Johnson who were admitted to hospitals for one reason or another were “involuntarily selected”for the program.  

843v90 was another product of the “involuntary selection” program although she, it seemed, was much luckier than poor 528m32.  843v90 lived with her hairdresser mother, Raquel Goderitch who by all accounts was kind and vivacious and her good-natured, beer-swilling truck-driving stepfather Leo, in a tract home in Kingston, Ontario along with three dogs, two cats, a parakeet named Mariah and a goldfish she’d named Justin Timberlake. God. Despite being an extremely indifferent student, and possessing no discernable hobbies or interests, she seemed perfectly content in her vapid little existence.  How nice for her. Hmm...down a bit to 3.15. Probably, Rachel noted with interest, because she had become sexually active and had begun taking birth control pills.  One of the few so far. Interesting.  Rachel then wriggled her nose at her photo making a mental note to never, EVER go platinum blond and closed the file.

Rachel sighed and opened the last file. 317b31 would always have interested her as she was physically the closest,* but she was also a bit of an anomaly.  Since around age six, most of them had been remarkably consistent in terms of their composite scores. And, 317b31 had historically hovered around a relatively robust 4.35, but over the last three years her score had fallen precipitously to 2.89--and no one could figure out why.   
And now 2.66. Her grades had fallen even further. She’d been diagnosed with a mood disorder, and was taking an anti-depressant.  She’d always been on the quiet side, but both of her monitors (her pediatrician and a guidance counselor at the school) now independently described her has “withdrawn.”She wasn’t sleeping either. It was strange, really.  When they floundered like this, the reason usually jumped off the page—poverty, abuse, neglect, etc. However, 317b31’s parents and home-life seemed perfectly adequate.  How bizarre?

Of course, Rachel didn’t have favorites or champion any of them the pathetic way Aldous did, but for whatever reason when she opened this file, she had found herself hoping 317b31 had pulled out of her tailspin.  It was irrational really.  Resiliency, like success and failure, was of course, an illusion.  Epigenetics aside, they all began with the same baseline and any individual differences that emerged, any successes, any failures, any “choices” were simply byproducts of circumstance--culture, class, education and upbringing.  Something to be studied, nothing more.  324b21 excelled not due to any virtue, but because she had the wildly good fortune to be raised by two amiable, well-adjusted university professors from wealthy families. She no more “earned” or “deserved” her fate any more than 528m32 “earned” or “deserved” the opposite courtesy of her neglectful sewer-rat of a mother. Their fates were all sealed the moment their place in the world was assigned. Just as it was her fate to sit atop-it-all and observe.

Anyway, Rachel had also gone to see 317b31 last year at a local track meet. She felt vaguely ridiculous in a hat and sunglasses as she sat in the back row of the visitor’s side, but afterwards she was glad she had gone because it reinforced Rachel’s impression of her from her file. She won her race, but didn’t gloat or preen about like 903v18 surely would have. She simply smiled down at her shoes and joined her teammates.  She appeared to have friends, but not TOO many.  Her clothes and hair were tasteful and understated. She wasn’t the center of attention and she wasn’t trying to be.  It would be going way too far to say she had “liked” 317b31, but she could almost imagine having a conversation with her. Perhaps she’d ask her “what’s the matter?”

Years later, of course, she’d find out and be grateful she didn’t know at the time. They screened prospective parents for that sort of thing but that dreadful man had slipped through. She might’ve been tempted to make an anonymous phone call to the police.  Which would have been wrong indeed.  
 


End file.
